My sick desire

I really want to "scrapbook." I didn't even know that was a verb until I moved to the suburbs and uncovered whole retail establishments dedicated to scrapbooking paraphenalia.

Apparently, people have scrapbooking parties, which aren't really just pure glue-gun and rick-rack get-togethers, but rather a corporate pyramid scheme hell-bent on women forking over money for ridiculous scrapbooking gee-gaws.

SIGN ME UP.

I have such advanced fantasies about the scrapbooks I would make. Babycakes' first birthday party is my main obsession. I bet I can glue-gun and rick-rack that like CRAZY!

See, I have little or no artistic abilities whatsoever. Hub-D kicks my ass in most things aesthetic and I'm always just fumbling around, kind of art-retarded. But this scrapbooking deal seems like even *I* could make something cool.

Well, no, it probably wouldn't be cool, but it would take me back to the days of Girl Scout crafts time, where some mom would have stayed up all night cutting felt and sorting pipe cleaners so we girls could all dutifully glue them together and make, say, an Easter Bunny with googly eyes, all identical, but ultimately OK-looking. If one removes all creative elements from a crafts project, I can usually do it, as long as it doesn't take more than 45 minutes, because then I will get bored and abandon it.

But if it were a SCRAPBOOK about and for my unbelievably gorgeous daughter, then I would finish it for sure. Especially if there were pre-made stickers and things I could potentially do involving scissors that make wave patterns.

Will someone PLEASE invite me to one of those parties? I will be so good. I will NOT get drunk. I would be the biggest dork there, but I'll buy ALL the shamrock stickers. For sure.